Secrets
by geekischic
Summary: I remember leaning my head back against the cool tile behind me, closing my eyes as I realized that no matter how wrong this was, there was no way I would ever stop. 13-centric, rated M for mature themes


**A/N: I'm warning you here, this is a story with mature themes about self injury (aka cutting), so if that kind of stuff tends to make you squirm I'd suggest you head on out of here. **

**A/N2: This is from Thirteen's point of view (because I love writing Thirteen all dark and angsty!). It's sort of like Thirteen's thoughts to herself (I didn't really write this as if she was telling her story to anyone). One shot, not planning on continuing.**

-o0o-

I remember the first time I took a blade to my skin.

I had only been fifteen. My dad had been downstairs with my mom, helping her eat because her hands were shaking so bad. She hadn't stopped screaming since she'd gotten home, and I swear that my hands had been glued over my ears just to make the noise _stop. _My nerves were shot as I listened to the all too familiar sound, and I knew exactly what I needed to do to feel just the tiniest bit better.

So I ran upstairs to my dad's study, the only room in the house that was specifically off limits to me. I'd snuck in so quietly, so stealthily, convinced that if I took a wrong step the floorboards would creak and my dad would come running in, and I would be caught.

But I made it to the desk safe and sound, and I held my breath as I snatched the silver X-Acto knife from its stand on the desk, and I ran as quickly as I could to the bathroom.

The door locked safely behind me, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself, hating the dark circles under my eyes. But at that moment, I had more pressing issues to deal with. I peeled off my shirt, eyeing the spot on my clavicle where the tiny silver scars nestled in the crook of my neck, almost invisible.

But I could see them plain as day, and that was all that mattered.

I remember how badly my hands shook as I took the safety cap off the blade, how my fingers trembled as I inched the blade closer to my skin. I distinctly remember how I'd wondered if my hands would shake this bad once the Huntington's chorea set in.

I was both excited and nervous as the cool blade met my skin, wondering if it would be different this time. I'd only ever used dull tools: a paperclip, the edge of a metal nail file, a broken bobby pin. But the blade on this tool was so different. It was sleek and smooth, glinting brightly in the light, almost taunting me by saying I didn't have the guts to actually do it. I took a deep breath and stared at the familiar scars in the mirror, watching as the blade slid across my shoulder.

I was fascinated as I watched it move across my skin, gliding effortlessly like a figure skater across an ice rink. A gasp left my lips as I felt the first pricks of pain settle in, sending a shock of warm tingles from my toes to my scalp. I smiled at I watched my skin turn from tan to silver, and then to a light pink before the bright red blood bubbled over and began to drip down my chest.

I remember leaning my head back against the cool tile behind me, closing my eyes as I realized that no matter how wrong this was, there was no way I would ever stop.

-o0o-

The habit followed me through college, and eventually to now, here at the hospital. Whenever I felt sad and alone, angry or confused, scared and out of control, I just ran to the nearest bathroom and grabbed my latest tool of choice. I always prepared myself with a few to choose from. If the urge wasn't too bad, I'll pull out the broken bobby pin I'd hidden in the hem of my shirt. If it was a little stronger, I'd take out the tiny box of safety pins I kept in my purse. And if the urge was too strong to be satisfied with duller tools, I'd make a quick run to the OR, snatching an unused scalpel before anyone could notice. House thought I made these trips because I had a crush on Chase, and was looking forward to the catfight between me and Cameron.

But the truth was that I just needed the blade.

There were plenty of times where I'd almost been caught. ER nurses, occasional patients, hell, even Dr. Cuddy had walked in while I was still cleaning up my wounds in a bathroom stall. I'd been at the sink, cleaning up a nick I'd made in between my fingers, when Cuddy had walked in. I'd told her that a kid had closed the door on my hand in the clinic during a temper tantrum, and she'd laughed and told me not to give him the customary lollipop.

And when the door closed behind her, I'd let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

-o0o-

The way I rationalized it, my body was a scoreboard. Each score was a tally mark of a time where I just couldn't handle things on my own. The good times and the bad, the rewards and the punishments, they were all there, laid out in silver across my body.

One night, I'd taken the time to count out all the scars across my body. On my clavicle, across my hip bones, along my knees and ankles, and the occasional few across my forearms, I'd counted all of these to get my magic number. One hundred and thirteen.

Ironic, isn't it?

-o0o-

There is a small part of me that wonders how in the hell I've been able to keep this a secret for so long. Wondering how with all the scars across my body, no one has ever able to put two and two together. The fact actually thrills me a bit. The fact that I've been able to hide this for so long.

Though there is a part of me that screams the question "Why?" every time I touch the metal to my skin. I guess it's part of whatever's left of my conscience. It asks me why I hate myself so much that I feel I have to do this so often, but I just settle into a numb corner of my mind and ignore the nagging voice.

But there is one question it asks that tends to worry me: Which will kill you first? The Huntington's or your addiction to cutting?

And the truth is, I don't have an answer.

**-End-**


End file.
